Numbers
by BluStrawberri
Summary: Oneshot. JoshuaNeku. It's been five years since that fateful day. And Neku hasn't forgotten him at all. A bit of angst.


I've actually had this for a while. It _does_ have some angst, and of course, yaoi. And Neku may surprise you a bit. Maybe. Ahaha.

So, without further ado, here it is!

It's been five years. Five years since that fateful day at the mural, four years and forty-nine weeks since you left, and four years and forty-eight weeks that I've thought of you for every waking moment of my life. I say forty-eight weeks because at first I hated you. I put you to the back of my mind, and I pushed you away from me. But you know how my mind works, and you don't even have to be the Composer to know that the things I try not to think about always end up pushing their way into my thoughts. It was so strange, how I could clear my thoughts and open up to other people. Now I won't even open up to myself.

Shiki, Beat, Rhyme, they all tried to help. It worked, for a while. But you kept on creeping into my mind in one way or another. A whiff of a familiar scent, a flash of blonde hair in the crowd, these stopped my in my tracks. But, as much as I wanted it to be so, it wasn't you. I kept straining my ears for that familiar, infuriating giggle, one that back then sounded so annoying, but now would give me relief. I yearned for a sign, any sign, to point me towards you. Towards something that would have meaning, for me and for my life. Some excitement, something new. All I ended up with were empty hands and an equally empty heart.

And then, surprisingly, the sign that I was looking for appeared to me, in the most unexpected way.

It was a rainy day, which wasn't surprising. I was walking with my friends, who were chatting away about their own problems. They had learned long ago to give up trying to talk to me; now they just let me join them for old time's sake. I've always wondered if you could control the weather in this place. These thoughts, like many others, wandered through my mind in those four years and forty-eight weeks. There I was, staring at the muddy, wet sidewalk, when I felt a slight pressure on my shoulder. Immediately I looked up, hoping to see you, but instead saw a brilliant white feather falling down to the ground. I had been around the supernatural long enough to know that it wasn't a normal feather, but something more inhuman—an angel feather. I reached down to pick it up, but a burst of wind carried it away from me and it landed on the ground farther away. Making a frustrated noise, I hurried after it, desperate for some proof that would tell me that I wasn't, indeed, going crazy. That the sign I needed was still here.

I went to pick it up, and another puff of air blew it away, down an alleyway. This time, when I automatically went to pick it up, it just continued to float on, carried by some unknown breeze. I didn't need my sharp sleuthing skills that I used in the Game to tell me that something, or someone, wanted me to follow it. I somehow knew that if I did, that everything I knew would change again. For the better or worse, I wasn't sure. Things that I didn't want to leave behind flashed in my mind. Shiki, Rhyme, Beat. My mother. My life. And it all seemed meaningless, because here I was wishing for something to happen, and it _had_. I knew I wouldn't regret this decision, because I wanted it more than I wanted anything. Except, maybe, you. But that's for another time.

So I followed it. Slow, at first, then faster as my impatience got the best of me. Every time I lagged behind, or the feather got out of sight, it would wait for me, patiently. I was hardly aware of how much time had passed, or the strain the journey was making on my body. I was only aware of my steady, labored breathing, and the guide of my journey up ahead, giving me silent encouragement.

It should have felt like an eternity, but it was peaceful. I knew the way by heart, anyway. I actually didn't need the guide. But it was helpful. It gave me the courage I lacked for those four years and forty-nine weeks, to trace the well-worn path that had somehow felt so foreboding the last time I went, that now felt familiar and comforting.

When I stepped into the door of the Dead God's Pad, I panicked a little. I had no player pin—how was I supposed to get in? What if I _couldn't_, what if I was too changed from before? Did you have to be part of the Game to go inside?

Even though I had stopped, my body weighted with panic and disappointment, the feather had not. It flew right to where the invisible door was, and lit it up for me to see. I almost cried, but it would have to wait, as the feather flew into the room beyond through a small crack.

I walked up to the door, pausing with my hand on the metallic handle. I suddenly felt insecure. Was this really true? Was I dreaming this? There had to be a catch. I know you, there's always a catch.

I willed myself to shove those thoughts out of my head, as I would do so often before, and pushed open the door.

The Room of Reckoning looked the same as before; same gray color, same lifeless décor. It was as much a room as a hospital, sterile and white. Back then—four years and forty-nine weeks ago I reminded myself—it had looked so ominous, like I was small and it was trying to swallow me up. It still feels that way, only less ominous and more reflecting the Composer that lives in it: lonely.

I figured that you must have been lonely, else why would you send for me? In those four years and fifty-eight weeks, I thought a lot about you. Your character. How someone like you could play such a cruel game. The only conclusion that I came up with was that in order to be in your position, in charge of the fates of millions, that you had to give up your own sense of self. You had to give up your treasures, lest they be taken away from you. You _had_ to be alone, that way you won't have to hurt when you lose someone. If you didn't lose someone by an enemy, it would be by old age. I figured you must have lived a long time, even from before I was born. How else would you know so much about me? I've always wondered what age you _really_ are, if you really are the teenage boy that you appear to me as.

So now we come to the present. Whatever that may be.

An airy giggle redirects my attention to the throne, and, more importantly, who is on it. My lungs feel like the air has been kicked out of them, and my heart aches in my chest. I survey the sneakers first, the spotless white sneakers. My eyes fly up to your legs, your bony knees. I flush a little as I skip a step, an area that I oh-so wish to explore but haven't wanted to admit. I bet you notice. If you do, you don't say a word. I go up to that inhumanly skinny waist, wrapped in the same shirt that I always saw you with, to the perfectly manicured nails and soft (or so I imagine) hands laying on the arms of the throne. I go up to the slender frame of your shoulders to the pale expanse of your neck, to your chin, your mouth, curved into the smirk that I remember. So, you _did_ notice. Oh well. I move up the nose, to the eyes that I have been longing to see.

Those pale, violet eyes look back at me, and I know in an instant that, despite the smirk, you are just as insecure as I am. That you've wanted this as much as I have—maybe even more, for you have had to wait longer. I gaze in those eyes, never once looking down. I know what you want. You don't have to say anything. You do, anyway, just to get the first word in. You're like that.

"Why, hello there, Neku," you greet, sounding amused. I know that it is all a façade, though, because I have seen it in your eyes—you want this, just as much as I do.

I try to find my voice. It takes willpower to open up my mouth, but I manage it. "Hello, Joshua."

You smirk. I can't control my voice as well as you do; it falters a bit towards the end. You stand up, walking slowly towards me, like a cat stalking its prey. "I trust that you've been well. It would be a shame to think that my poor proxy would be broken after all these years."

A familiar surge of anger takes root in me. "I'm not a doll, Joshua."

"Hm?" you tilt your head, never losing the amused look. "You mean I can't play with you?" you purr, putting emphasis on 'play'. I flush expectedly. Well, if you're going to play games, then I will, as well.

"Why, you act as if I'm the only one you have. Surely you have more?" I purr in reply. Your smirk falters a bit, but it is only an instant. I know I have caught you. And now you're not going to play nice anymore. You stalk up to me, a predatory gleam in your eyes. I get a small thrill of excitement from it, I'll admit.

"Well, now that you're back," you coo, "I can play with you all I want."

There it is. The barely concealed question that is on both of our minds. Will I stay? Will I have you back? I know that how I answer this will make its mark on both of us.

I've done a lot of thinking these four years and forty-eight weeks. About you, about me, about life. About life with you, if you came for me. About how you'd come and sweep me off my feet, smirking and saying some witty remark before you whisk me away to an eternal life with you. Four years and forty-nine weeks ago, I would have refused you, going back to what I believed was my real life. But I know now that the other one was fake; the sense of security it provided was brief. Any life without you was bound to be wretched and boring, for both of us. And I know how you _hate_ being bored.

I look around, pretending to be interested in the surroundings. "Only if you'll brighten up the place. Some sunlight, a few drapes. I can't go living in a hospital."

You quirk your eyebrow at the 'hospital' remark, but freeze as my words enter your mind. I can almost hear the wheels turning. It's funny. I bet you thought that I would say no, huh? It was probably in your calculations. Well, now I've surprised you, haven't I? I would laugh, if I wasn't so preoccupied with smiling like an idiot.

I look into your violet eyes. Numbers and dates flash inside my head. Five years since you took my life. Four years and fifty-one weeks since I met you for the first time. Four years and fifty weeks since I thought you had died. Four years and forty-nine weeks since you left me. Four years and forty-eight weeks since I let myself think about you. And three minutes and fifty-eight seconds since I agreed to live with you for eternity, whatever that may mean.

And not a second too soon.

Fin. I hope you liked it! Comments are much appreciated!


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